'For my part,' replied Fausta, 'I must think that they who have sowed and reaped, have been equal benefactors. The essential truths are instinctive and universal. As for the philosophers, they have, with few exceptions, been occupied as much about mere frivolities as any Palmyrene lady at her toilet. Still, I do not deny that the contemplative race is a useful one in its way. What I say is, that a religion which enjoined a solitary life as a duty, would be a very mischievous religion. And what is more, any such precept, fairly proved upon it, would annihilate all its claims to a divine origin. For certainly, if it were made a religious duty for one man to turn an idle, contemplative hermit, it would be equally the duty of every other, and then the arts of life by which we subsist would be forsaken. Any of the prevalent superstitions, if we may not call them religions, were better than this.'

'I agree with you entirely,' said Julia; 'but my acquaintance with the Christian writings is not such as to enable me to say with confidence that they contain no such permission or injunction. Indeed some of them I have not even read, and much I do not fully understand. But as I have seen and read enough to believe firmly that Christianity is a divine religion, my reason teaches me that it contains no precept such as we speak of.'

We had now, in the course of our walk, reached what we found to be a broad and level ledge, about half way to the summit of the hill. It was a spot remarkable for a sort of dark and solemn beauty, being set with huge branching trees, whose tops were woven into a roof, through which only here and there the rays of the fierce sun could find their way. The turf beneath, unincumbered with any smaller growth of tree or shrub, was sprinkled with flowers that love the shade. The upper limit of this level space was bounded by precipitous rocks, up which ascent seemed difficult or impossible, and the lower by similar ones, to descend which seemed equally difficult or impossible.

'If the abode of the Christian is hereabouts,' we said, 'it seems well chosen both for its security and the exceeding beauty of the various objects which greet the eye.'

'Soon as we shall have passed that tumbling rivulet,' said Julia, 'it will come into view.'

Upon a rude bridge of fallen trunks of trees, we passed the stream as it crossed our path, and which then shooting over the edge of the precipice, was lost among the rocks and woods below. A cloud of light spray fell upon us as we stood upon the bridge, and imparted a most refreshing coolness.

'Where you see,' said Julia, 'that dark entrance, beneath yonder low-browed rock, is the dwelling of the aged Christian.'

We moved on with slow and silent steps, our spirits partaking of the stillness and solitariness of the place. We reached the front of the grotto, without disturbing the meditations of the venerable man. A part of the rock which formed his dwelling served him for a seat, and another part projecting after the manner of a shelf, served him for a table, upon which lay unrolled a large volume. Bending over the book, his lean and shrivelled finger pointing to the words, and aiding his now dim and feeble eye, he seemed wholly wrapped in the truths he was contemplating, and heeded not our presence. We stood still for a moment, unwilling to break a repose so peaceful and profound. At length, raising his eyes from the page, they caught the form and face of the princess, who stood nearest to him. A quick and benignant smile lighted up his features; and rising slowly to his full height, he bade her welcome, with sweet and tremulous tones, to his humble roof.

'It is kind in you,' said he,'so soon again to ascend these rough solitudes, to visit a now unprofitable old, man; and more kind still to bring others with you. Voices from the world ring a sweet music in my ear—sweeter than any sound of bird or stream. Enter, friends, if it please you, and be rested, after the toil of your ascent.'

'I bring you here, father,' said Julia, 'according to my sometime promise, my friend and companion, the daughter of Gracchus, and with her a noble Roman, of the house of Piso, lately come hither from the capital of the world.'

'They are very, very welcome,' replied the saint, 'your presence breaks most gratefully the monotony of my life.'

'We almost doubted,' said I, 'venerable Father, whether it would please you to find beneath your roof those who receive not your belief, and what is much more, belong to a faith which has poured upon you and yours so full a flood of suffering and reproach. But your countenance assures us that we have erred.'

'You have, indeed,' replied the sage; 'as a Christian I see in you not pagans and unbelievers, not followers of Plato and Epicurus, not dwellers in Rome or Alexandria, but members of the great family of man, and as such I greet you, and already love you. The design of christianity is to unite and draw together, not divide and drive asunder. It teaches its disciples, indeed, to go out and convert the world, but if they cannot convert it, it still teaches them to love it. My days and my strength have been spent in preaching Christ to Jews and heathen, and many of those who have heard have believed. But more have not. These are not my brethren in Christ, but they are my brethren in God, and I love them as his.'

'These are noble sentiments,' said Fausta. 'Religion has, in almost all its forms, condemned utterly all who have not received it in the form in which it has been proposed. Rome, indeed, used to be mild and tolerant of every shape which the religious sentiment assumed. But since the appearance of christianity it has wholly changed its policy. I am afraid it formerly tolerated, only because it saw nothing to fear. Fearing christianity, it seeks to destroy it. That is scarcely generous of you, Lucius; nor very wise either—for surely truth can neither be created nor suppressed by applications of force. Such is not the doctrine of christianity, if I understand you right.'

'Lady, most certainly not,' he replied. 'Christianity is offered to mankind, not forced upon them. And this supposes in them the power and the right to sit in judgement upon its truth. But were not all free judgment destroyed, and all worthy reception of it therefore, if any penal consequences—greater or less, of one kind or another, present or future—followed upon its rejection? Rome has done wickedly, in her aim to suppress error and maintain truth by force. Is Rome a god to distinguish with certainty the one from the other? But alas! Rome is not alone to blame in this. Christians themselves are guilty of the same folly and crime. They interpret differently the sayings of Christ—as how should they not?—and the party which is stronger in numbers already begins to oppress, with hard usage and language, the weaker party, which presumes to entertain its own opinions. The Christians of Alexandria and Rome, fond of the ancient philosophy, and desirous to recommend the doctrines of Christ, by showing their near accordance with it, have, as many think, greatly adulterated the gospel, by mixing up with its truths the fantastic dreams of Plato. Others, among whom is our Paul of Antioch, deeming this injurious and erroneous, aim to restore the Christian doctrine to the simplicity that belongs to it in the original records, and which, for the most part, it still retains among the common people. But this is not willingly allowed. On the contrary, because Paul cannot see with their eyes and judge with their judgment, he is to be driven from his bishopric. Thus do the Christians imitate in their treatment of each other their common enemy, the Roman. They seem already ashamed of the gentleness of Christ, who would have every mind left in its own freedom to believe as its own powers enable it to believe. Our good Zenobia, though no Christian, is yet in this respect the truest Christian. All within her realm, thought is free as the air that plays among these leaves.'

'But is it not, said Fausta, 'a mark of imperfection in your religion, that it cannot control and bind to a perfect life its disciples? Methinks a divine religion should manifest its divinity in the superior goodness which it forms.'

'Is not that just?' I added.

'A divine religion,' he replied, 'may indeed be expected to show its heaven-derived power in creating a higher virtue than human systems. And this, I am sure, christianity does. I may safely challenge the world to show in human form the perfection which dwelt in Jesus, the founder of this religion. Yet his character was formed by the power of his own doctrines. Among his followers, if there have been none so perfect as he, there have been multitudes who have approached him, and have exhibited a virtue which was once thought to belong only to philosophers. The world has been accustomed to celebrate, with almost divine honors, Socrates, and chiefly because of the greatness of mind displayed by him when condemned to drink the cup of poison. I can tell you of thousands among the Christians, among common and unlearned Christians, who have met death, in forms many times more horrible than that in which the Greek encountered it, with equal calmness and serenity. This they have been enabled to do simply through the divine force of a few great truths, which they have implicitly believed. Beside this, consider the many usages of the world, which, while others hold them innocent, the Christians condemn them, and abstain from them. It is not to be denied that they are the reformers of the age. They are busy, sometimes with an indiscreet and violent zeal, in new modeling both the opinions and practices of the world. But what then? Are they to be condemned if a single fault may be charged upon, them? Must they be perfect, because their religion is divine? This might be so, if it were of the nature of religion to operate with an irresistible influence upon the mind, producing an involuntary and forced obedience. But in such an obedience there would be nothing like what we mean by virtue, but something quite inferior in the comparison. A religion, for the reason that it is divine, will, with the more certainty, make its appeals to a free nature. It will explain the nature and reveal the consequences of virtue and vice, but will leave the mind free to choose the one or the other. Christianity teaches, that in goodness, and faithfulness to the sense of duty, lies the chief good; in these there is a heaven of reward, not only now and on earth, but throughout an existence truly immortal. Is it not most evident that, with whatever authority this religion may propound its doctrines, men not being in a single power coerced, will not, though they may receive them, yield to them an equal observance? Hence, even among Christians, there must foe, perhaps ever, much imperfection.'

'Does not this appear to you, Fausta and Piso,' said Julia, as the old man paused, 'just and reasonable? Can it be an objection to this faith, that its disciples partake of the common weaknesses of humanity? Otherwise, religion would be a principle designed, not so much to improve and exalt our nature, as to alter it.

'We allow it readily to be both just and reasonable.'

'But it seemed to us,' said Fausta, 'as we ascended the mountain, and were conversing, to be with certainty a proof of imperfection in your religion—pardon my freedom, we are come as learners, and they who would learn, must, without restraint, express their doubts—that it recommended or permitted a recluse and inactive life. Have your days, Father, been passed in this deep solitude? and has your religion demanded it?'

'Your freedom pleases me,' replied the venerable man; 'and I wonder not at the question you propose. Not my religion, lady, but an enfeebled and decrepit frame chains me to this solitude. I have now outlasted a century, and my powers are wasted and gone. I can do little more than sit and ponder the truths of this life-giving book, and anticipate the renewed activity of that immortal being which it promises. The Christian converts, who dwell beneath those roofs which you see gleaming in the valley below, supply the few wants which I have. When their labor is done for the day, they sometimes come up, bringing with them baskets of fresh or dried fruits, which serve me, together with the few roots and berries which I myself can gather as I walk this level space, for my food. My thirst I quench at the brook which you have just passed. Upon this simple but wholesome nutriment, and breathing this dry mountain air, my days may yet be prolonged through many years. But I do not covet them, since nature makes me a prisoner. But I submit, because my faith teaches me to receive patiently whatever the Supreme Ruler appoints. It is not my religion that prescribes this manner of life, or permits it, but as the last refuge of an imbecility like mine. Christianity denounces selfishness, in all its forms, and what form of selfishness more gross than to spend the best of one's days in solitary musing and prayer, all to secure one's own salvation? The founder of this religion led an active and laborious life. He did good not only to himself by prayer and meditation: he went about doing it to others—seeking out objects whom he might benefit and bless. His life was one of active benevolence; and the record of that life is the religious code of his followers. No condemnation could be more severe than that which the Prophet of Nazareth would pronounce upon such a life as mine now is, were it a chosen, voluntary one. But it never has been voluntary. Till age dried up the sources of my strength, I toiled night and day in all countries and climates, in the face of every danger, in the service of mankind. For it is by serving others, that the law of Christ is fulfilled. Disinterested labor for others constituted the greatness of Jesus Christ. This constitutes true greatness in his followers. I perceive that what I say falls upon your ear as a new and strange doctrine. But it is the doctrine of christianity. It utterly condemns, therefore, a life of solitary devotion. It is a mischievous influence which is now spreading outward from the example of that Paul, who suffered so much under the persecution of the Emperor Decius and who then, flying to the solitudes of the Egyptian Thebais, has there, in the vigor of his days, buried himself in a cave of the earth, that he may serve God by forsaking man. His maxim seems to be, "The farther from man, the nearer to God"—-the reverse of the Christian maxim, "The nearer man, the nearer God." A disciple of Jesus has truly said: "He who loves not his brother whom he hath seen, how shall he love God, whom he hath not seen?" This, it may be, Roman, is the first sentence you have ever heard from the Christian books.'

'I am obliged to confess that it is,' I replied. 'I have heretofore lived in an easy indifference toward all religions. The popular religion of my country I early learned to despise. I have perused the philosophers, and examined their systems, from Pythagoras to Seneca, and am now, what I have long been, a disciple of none but Pyrrho. My researches have taught me only how the more ingeniously to doubt. Wearied at length with a vain inquiry after truth that should satisfy and fill me, I suddenly abandoned the pursuit, with the resolve never to resume it. I was not even tempted to depart from this resolution when Christianity offered itself to my notice; for I confounded it with Judaism, and for that, as a Roman, I entertained too profound a contempt to bestow upon it a single thought. I must acknowledge that the reports which I heard, and which I sometimes read, of the marvellous constancy and serenity of the Christians, under accumulated sufferings and wrongs, interested my feelings in their behalf; and the thought often arose, "Must there not be truth to support such heroism?" But the world went on its way, and I with it, and the Christians were forgotten. To a Christian, on my voyage across the Mediterranean, I owe much, for my first knowledge of Christianity. To the Princess Julia I owe a larger debt still. And now from your lips, long accustomed to declare its truths, I have heard what makes me truly desirous to hear the whole of that which, in the glimpses I have been able to obtain, has afforded so real a satisfaction,'

'Were you to study the Christian books,' said the recluse, 'you would be chiefly struck perhaps with the plainness and simplicity of the doctrines there unfolded. You would say that much which you found there, relating to the right conduct of life, you had already found scattered through the books of the Greek and Roman moralists. You would be startled by no strange or appalling truth. You would turn over their leaves in vain in search of such dark and puzzling ingenuities as try the wits of those who resort to the pages of the Timaeus. A child can understand the essential truths of Christ. And the value of Christianity consists not in this, that it puts forth a new, ingenious, and intricate system of philosophy, but that it adds to recognised and familiar truths divine authority. Some things are indeed new; and much is new, if that may be called so which, having been neglected as insignificant by other teachers, has by Christ been singled out and announced as primal and essential. But the peculiarity of Christianity lies in this, that its voice, whether heard in republishing an old and familiar doctrine, or announcing, a new one, is not the voice of man, but of God. It is a revelation. It is a word from the invisible, unapproachable Spirit of the universe. For this Socrates would have been willing to renounce all his wisdom. Is it not this which we need? We can theorize and conjecture without end, but cannot relieve ourselves of our doubts. They will assail every work of man. We wish to repose in a divine assurance. This we have in Christianity. It is a message from God. It puts an end to doubt and conjecture. Wise men of all ages have agreed in the belief of One God; but not being able to demonstrate his being and his unity, they have had no power to change the popular belief, which has ever tended to polytheism and idolatry, Christianity teaches this truth with the authority of God himself, and already has it become the faith of millions. Philosophers have long ago taught that the only safe and happy life is a virtuous life. Christianity repeats this great truth, and adds, that it is such a life alone that conducts to immortality. Philosophers have themselves believed in the doctrine of a future existence, and have died hoping to live again; and it cannot be denied that mankind generally have entertained an obscure expectation of a renewed being after death. The advantage of Christianity consists in this, that it assures us of the reality of a future life, on the word and authority of God himself. Jesus Christ taught, that all men come forth from death, wearing a new spiritual body, and thereafter never die; and to confirm his teaching, he himself being slain, rose from the dead, and showed himself to his followers alive, and while they were yet looking upon him, ascended to some other and higher world. Surely, Roman, though christianity announced nothing more than these great truths, yet seeing it puts them forth in the name, and with the authority of God, it is a vast accession to our knowledge.'

'Indeed it cannot be denied,' I answered. 'It would be a great happiness too to feel such an assurance, as he must who believes in your religion, of another life. Death would then lose every terror. We could approach the close of life as calmly and cheerfully, sometimes as gladly, as we now do the close of a day of weary travel or toil. It would be but to lie down and rest, and sleep, and rise again refreshed by the slumber for the labors and enjoyments of a life which should then be without termination, and yet unattended by fatigue. I can think of no greater felicity than to be able to perceive the truth of such a religion as yours.'

'This religion of the Christians,' said Fausta, 'seems to be full of reasonable and desirable truth—if it all be truth. But how is this great point to be determined? How are we to know whether the founder of this religion was in truth a person holding communication with God? The mind will necessarily demand a large amount of evidence, before it can believe so extraordinary a thing. I greatly fear, Julia, lest I may never be a Christian. What is the evidence, Father, with which you trust, to convince the mind of an inquirer? It must possess potency, for all the world seems flocking to the standard of Christ.'

'I think, indeed,' replied the saint, 'that it possesses potency. I believe its power to be irresistible. But do you ask in sincerity, daughter of Gracchus, what to do in order to believe in christianity?'

'I do, indeed,' answered Fausta. 'But know that my mind is one not easy of belief.'

'Christianity, lady, asks no forced or faint assent. It appeals to human reason, and it blames not the conscientious doubter or denier. When it requires you to examine, and constitutes you judge, it condemns no honest decision. The mind that approaches christianity must be free, and ought to be fearless. Hesitate not to reject that which evidence does not substantiate. But examine and weigh well the testimony. If then you would know whether christianity be true, it is first of all needful that you read and ponder the Christian books. These books prove themselves. The religion of Christ is felt to be true, as you read the writings in which it is recorded. Just as the works of nature prove to the contemplative mind the being of a God, so do the books of the Christians prove the truth of their religion. As you read them, as your mind embraces the teaching, and above all, the character of Christ, you involuntarily exclaim: "This must be true; the sun in the heavens does not more clearly point to a divine author, than do the contents of these books." You find them utterly unlike any other books—differing from them just in the same infinite and essential way that the works of God differ from the works of man.'

He paused, and we were for a few moments silent. At length Fausta said: 'This is all very new and strange, Father! Why, Julia, have you never urged me to read these books?'

'The princess,' resumed the hermit, 'has done wisely co leave you to the promptings of your own mind. The more every thing in religion is voluntary and free, the more worth attaches to it. Christ would not that any should be driven or urged to him; but that they should come. Nevertheless the way must be pointed out. I have now shown you one way. Let me tell you of another. The Christian books bear the names of the persons who profess to have written them, and who declare themselves to have lived and to have recorded events which happened in the province of Judea, in the reigns of Tiberius and Nero. Now it is by no means a difficult matter for a person, desirous to arrive at the truth, to institute such inquiries, as shall fully convince him that such persons lived then and there, and performed the actions ascribed to them. We are not so far removed from those times, but that by resorting to the places where the events of the Christian history took place, we can readily satisfy ourselves of their truth—if they be true—by inquiring of the descendants of those who were concerned in the very transactions recorded. This thousands and thousands have done, and they believe in the events—strange as they are—of the Christian history as implicitly as they do in the events of the Roman history, for the same period of time. Listen, my children, while I rehearse my own experience as a believer in Christ.

'My father, Cyprian, a native of Syria, attained, as I have attained, to an extreme old age. At the age of five score years and ten, he died within the walls of this quiet dwelling of nature's own hewing, and there at the root of that ancient cedar his bones repose. He was for twenty years a contemporary of St. John the evangelist—of that John, who was one of the companions of Jesus the founder of christianity, and who ere he died wrote a history of Jesus, of his acts and doctrine. From the very lips of this holy man, did the youthful but truth-loving and truth-seeking Cyprian receive his knowledge of christianity. He sat and listened while the aged apostle—the past rising before him with the distinctness of a picture—told of Jesus; of the mild majesty of his presence; of the power and sweetness of his discourse; of the love he bore toward all that lived; of his countenance radiant with joy when, in using the miraculous power intrusted to show descent from God, he gave health to the pining sick, and restored the dying and the dead to the arms of weeping friends. There was no point of the history which the apostle has recorded for the instruction of posterity, which Cyprian did not hear, with all its minuter circumstances, from his own mouth. Nay, he was himself a witness of the exercise of that same power of God which was committed without measure to Jesus, on the part of the apostle. He stood by—his spirit wrapt and wonderstruck—while at the name of Jesus the lame walked, the blind recovered their sight, and the sick leaped from their couches. When this great apostle was fallen asleep, my father, by the counsel of St. John, and that his faith might be yet farther confirmed, travelled over all the scenes of the Christian history. He visited the towns and cities of Judea, where Jesus had done his marvellous works. He conversed with the children of those who had been subjects of the healing power of the Messiah. He was with those who themselves had mingled among the multitudes who encompassed him, when Lazarus was summoned from the grave, and who clung to the cross when Jesus was upon it dying, and witnessed the sudden darkness, and felt the quaking of the earth. Finding, wherever he turned his steps in Judea, from Bethlehem to Nazareth, from the Jordan to the great sea, the whole land filled with those who, as either friends or enemies, had hung upon the steps of Jesus, and seen his miracles, what was he, to doubt whether such a person as Jesus had ever lived, or had ever done those wonderful works? He doubted not; he believed, even as he would have done had he himself been present as a disciple. In addition to this, he saw at the places where they were kept, the evangelic histories, in the writing of those who drew them up; and at Rome, at Corinth, at Philippi, at Ephesus, he handled with his own hands the letters of Paul, which he wrote to the Christians of those places; and in those places and others, did he dwell and converse with multitudes who had seen and heard the great apostle, and had witnessed the wonders he had wrought. I, the child of Cyprian's old age, heard from him all that I have now recounted to you. I sat at his feet, as he had sat at the evangelist's, and from him I heard the various experiences of his long, laborious, and troubled life. Could I help but believe what I heard?—and so could I help but be a Christian? My father was a man—and all Syria knows him to have been such an one—of a passionate love of truth. At any moment would he have cheerfully suffered torture and death, sooner than have swerved from the strictest allegiance to its very letter. Nevertheless, he would not that I should trust to him alone, but as the apostle had sent him forth, so he sent me forth, to read the evidences of the truth of this religion in the living monuments of Judea. I, too, wandered a pilgrim over the hills and plains of Galilee. I sat in the synagogue at Nazareth, I dwelt in Capernaum. I mused by the shore of the Galilean lake. I haunted the ruins of Jerusalem, and sought out the places where the Savior of men had passed the last hours of his life. Night after night I wept and prayed upon the Mount of Olives. Wherever I went, and among whomsoever I mingled, I found witnesses eloquent and loud, and without number, to all the principal facts and events of our sacred history. Ten thousand traditions of the life and acts of Christ and his apostles, all agreeing substantially with the written records, were passing from mouth to mouth, and descending from sire to son. The whole land, in all its length and breadth, was but one vast monument to the truth of Christianity. And for this purpose it was resorted to by the lovers of truth from all parts of the world. Did doubts arise in the mind of a dweller in Rome, or Carthage, or Britain, concerning the whole or any part of the Christian story, he addressed letters to well known inhabitants of the Jewish cities, or he visited them in person, and by a few plain words from another, or by the evidence of his own eyes and ears, every doubt was scattered. When I had stored my mind with knowledge from these original sources, I then betook myself to some of the living oracles of Christian wisdom, with the fame of whose learning and piety the world was filled. From the great Clement of Rome, from Dionysius at Alexandria, from Tertullian at Carthage, from that wonder of human genius, Origen, in his school at Caesarea, I gathered together what more was needed to arm me for the Christian warfare; and I then went forth full of faith myself to plant its divine seeds in the hearts of whosoever would receive them. In this good work my days have been spent. I have lived and taught but to unfold to others the evidences which have made me a Christian. My children,'continued he, 'why should you not receive my words? why should I desire to deceive you? I am an old man, trembling upon the borders of the grave. Can I have any wish to injure you? Is it conceivable that, standing thus already as it were before the bar of God, I could pour false and idle tales into your ears? But if I have spoken truly, can you refuse to believe? But I must not urge. Use your freedom. Inquire for yourselves. Let the leisure and the wealth which are yours carry you to read with your own eyes that wide-spread volume which you will find among the mountains and valleys of the holy land. Princess, my strength is spent, or there is much more I could gladly add.'

'My friends,' said the princess, 'are, I am sure, grateful for what you have said, and they have heard.'

'Indeed we are,' said Fausta, 'and heartily do we thank you. One thing more would I ask. What think you of the prospects of the Christian faith? Are the common reports of its rapid ascendency to be heeded? Is it making its way, as we are told, even into the palaces of kings? I know, indeed, what happens in Palmyra; but elsewhere, holy father?'

As Fausta spoke these words, the aged man seemed wrapped in thought. His venerable head sank upon his breast; his beard swept the ground. At length, slowly raising his head, and with eyes lifted upward, he said, in deep and solemn tones: 'It cannot, it cannot be difficult to read the future. It must be so. I see it as if it were already come. The throne which is red with blood, and he who sits thereon, wielding a sword dropping blood, sinks—sinks—and disappears; and one all white, and he who sits thereon, having upon his frontlet these words, "Peace on earth and good will toward men," rises and fills its place. And I hear a movement as of a multitude which no man number, coming and worshipping around the throne. God of the whole earth, arise!—visit it with thy salvation! Hasten the coming of the universal kingdom of thy Son, when all shall know thee, and love to God and love to man possess and fill every soul.'

As the venerable man uttered this prayer, Julia looked steadfastly upon him, and a beauty more than of earth seemed to dwell upon her countenance.

'Father,' said Fausta, 'we are not now fair judges of truth. Your discourse has wrought so upon us, that we need reflection before we can tell what we ought to believe.'

'That is just,' said the saint; 'to determine right, we must think as well as feel. And that your minds may the sooner return to the proper state, let me set before you of such as my dwelling will afford.'

Saying this, he moved from the seat which till now he had retained, and closing the volume he had been reading, laid it away with care, saying as he did so, 'This, children, is the Christian's book; not containing all those writings which we deem to be of authority in describing our faith, but such as are most needful. It is from reading this, and noting as you read the inward marks of honesty, and observing how easy it were, even now, by visiting Judea, to convict its authors of error and falsehood, had they been guilty of either, that your minds will be best able to judge of the truth and worth of Christianity.'

'At another time, father,' said Fausta, 'it would give me great delight, and equally too, I am sure, our friend from Rome, if you would read to us portions of that volume, that we may know somewhat of its contents from your lips, accompanied too by such comments as you might deem useful to learners. It is thus we have often heard the Greek and Roman writers from the mouth of Longinus.'

'Whenever,' he replied, 'you shall be willing to ascend these steep and rugged paths, in pursuit of truth, I in my turn will stand prepared to teach. To behold such listeners before me, brings back the life of former days.'

He then, with short and interrupted steps, busied himself in bringing forth his humble fare. Bread and fruits, and olives, formed our light repast, together with ice-cold water, which Julia, seizing from his hand the hermit's pitcher, brought from a spring that gushed from a neighboring rock.

This being ended, and with it much various and agreeable conversation, in the course of which the Christian patriarch gave many striking anecdotes of his exposed and toilsome life, we rose, and bidding farewell, with promises to return again, betook ourselves to our horses, and mounting them, were soon at the gates of the palace.

I confess myself interested in the question of Christianity. The old religions are time-worn, and in effect dead. To the common people, when believed, they are as often injurious as useful—to others, they are the objects of open, undisguised contempt. Yet religion, in some form, the human mind must have. We feel the want of it as we do of food and drink. But, as in the case of food and drink, it must be something that we shall perceive to nourish and strengthen, not to debilitate and poison. In my searches through antiquity, I have found no system which I could rest in as complete and satisfying. They all fail in many vital points. They are frequently childish in their requisitions and their principles; their morality is faulty; their spirit narrow and exclusive; and more than all, they are without authority. The principles which are to guide, control, and exalt our nature, it seems to me, must proceed from the author of that nature. The claim of Christianity to be a religion provided for man by the Creator of man, is the feature in it which draws me toward it. This claim I shall investigate and scan, with all the ability and learning I can bring to the work. But whatever I or you may think of it, or ultimately determine, every eye must see with what giant steps it is striding onward—temples, religions, superstitions, and powers crumbling and dissolving at its approach. Farewell.



Letter VIII.



The words of that Christian recluse, my Curtins, still ring in my ear. I know not how it is, but there is a strange power in all that I have heard from any of that sect. You remember how I was struck by the manner, the countenance, and above all by the sentiments of Probus, the Christian whom I encountered on his way to Carthage. A still stronger feeling possesses me, when I hear the same things from the lips of Julia. It seems as if she herself, and the religion she discourses of, must proceed from the same author. She is certainly a divine work. And there is such an alliance between her and those truths, that I am ready almost to believe that for this reason alone they must have that very divine origin which is claimed for them. Is there any thing in our Roman superstitions, or philosophy even, that is at all kindred to the spirit of a perfect woman?—any thing suited to her nature? Has it ever seemed as if woman were in any respect the care of the gods? In this, Christianity differs from all former religions and philosophies. It is feminine. I do not mean by that, weak or effeminate. But in its gentleness, in the suavity of its tone, in the humanity of its doctrines, in the deep love it breathes toward all of human kind, in the high rank it assigns to the virtues which are peculiarly those of woman, in these things and many others, it is throughout for them as well as for us—almost more for them than for us. In this feature of it, so strange and new, I see marks of a wisdom beyond that of any human fabricator. A human inventor would scarcely have conceived such a system; and could he have conceived it, would not have dared to publish it. It would have been in his judgment to have wantonly forfeited the favor of the world. The author of Christianity, with a divine boldness, makes his perfect man, in the purity and beauty of his character, the counterpart of a perfect woman. The virtues upon which former teachers have chiefly dwelt, are by him almost unnoticed, and those soft and feminine ones, which others seem to have utterly forgotten, he has exalted to the highest place. So that, as I before said, Julia discoursing to me of Christianity is in herself, in the exact accordance between her mind and heart and that faith, the strongest argument I have yet found of its truth. I do not say that I am a believer. I am not. But I cannot say what the effect may be of a few more interviews with the hermit of the mountain, in company with the princess. His arguments, illustrated by her presence, will carry with them not a little force.

When, after our interview with the Christian, we had returned to the Queen's villa, we easily persuaded ourselves that the heat of the day was too great for us to set out, till toward the close of it, for the city. So we agreed, in the absence of the Queen and other guests, to pass the day after our own manner, and by ourselves. The princess proposed that we should confine ourselves to the cool retreats near the fountain of the Elephant, made also more agreeable to us than any other place by the delightful hours we had sat there listening to the melodious accents of the great Longinus. To this proposal we quickly and gladly assented. Our garments being then made to correspond to the excessive heats of the season, soothed by the noise of the falling waters, and fanned by slaves who waved to and fro huge leaves of the palm tree, cut into graceful forms, and set in gold or ivory, we resigned ourselves to that sleepy but yet delicious state which we reach only a few times in all our lives, when the senses are perfectly satisfied and filled, and merely to live is bliss enough. But our luxurious ease was slightly diversified with additions and changes no ways unwelcome. Ever and anon slaves entered, bearing trays laden with every rare and curious confection which the art of the East supplies, but especially with drinks cooled by snow brought from the mountains of India. These, in the most agreeable manner, recruited our strength when exhausted by fits of merriment, or when one had become weary of reading or reciting a story for the amusement of the others, and the others as weary, or more weary, by listening. It were in vain to attempt to recall for your and Lucilia's entertainment the many pleasant things which were both said and done on this day never to be forgotten. And besides, perhaps, were they set down in order and sent to Rome, the spicy flavor which gave life to them here might all exhale, and leave them flat and dull. Suffice it therefore to say, that in our judgment many witty and learned sayings were uttered—for the learning, that must rest upon our declaration—for the wit, the slaves will bear witness to it, as they did then, by their unrestrained bursts of laughter.

It was with no little reluctance that, as the last rays of the sun fell upon the highest jet of the fountain, we heard the princess declare that the latest hour had come, and we must fain prepare for the city. A little time sufficed for this, and we were soon upon our horses threading the defiles among the hills, or flying over the plains. A few hours brought us within the gates of the city. Leaving Julia at the palace of the Queen, we turned toward the house of Gracchus. Its lofty front soon rose before us. As we passed into the court-yard, the first sound that greeted me was Milo's blundering voice: 'Welcome, most noble Gallienus, welcome again to Palmyra!'

'I am not,' said I, 'quite an emperor yet, but notwithstanding, I am glad to be in Palmyra—more glad to be at the house of Gracchus—and glad most of all to see Gracchus himself at home, and well'—the noble Roman—as I shall call him—at that moment issuing from a door of the palace, and descending at a quick pace the steps, to assist Fausta from her horse.

'We are not,' said he, 'long separated; but to those who really love, the shortest separation is a long one, and the quickest return an occasion of joy.' Saying so, he embraced and kissed his beautiful daughter, and grasped cordially my hand.

'Come,' added he, 'enter and repose. Your ride has been a sharp one, as your horses declare, and the heat is great. Let us to the banqueting-hall, as the coolest, and there sit and rest.' So we were again soon within that graceful apartment, where I had first sat and tasted the hospitalities of Palmyra. The gods above were still at their feast, drinking or drunken. Below, we sat at the open windows, and with more temperance regaled ourselves with the cool air that came to us, richly laden with the fragrance of surrounding flowers, and with that social converse that is more inspiring than Falernian, or the soft Palmyrene. After talking of other things, Gracchus addressed me saying:

'But is it not now time, Lucius, that a letter at least came from Isaac? I have forborne to inquire, from time to time, as I would do nothing to add to your necessary anxiety. It surely now however is right to consider the steps next to be taken, if he shall have failed in his enterprise.'

'Isaac and Calpurnius,' I replied, 'are never absent from my thoughts, and I have already resolved—the gods willing and favoring—that when a period of sufficient length shall have elapsed, and the Jew does not appear, having either perished on the way or else in the capital of the Great King—myself to start, as I at first designed to do, upon this expedition, and either return with my brother, or else die also in the endeavor. Seek not, Fausta, as I perceive you are about to do, to turn me from my purpose. It will be—it ought to be—in vain. I can consent no longer to live thus in the very heart of life, while this cloud of uncertainty hangs over the fate of one so near to me. Though I should depute the service of his rescue to a thousand others, my own inactivity is insupportable, and reproaches me like a crime.'

'I was not, as you supposed, Lucius,' replied Fausta, 'about to draw you away from your purpose, but, on the contrary, to declare my approbation of it. Were I Lucius, my thoughts would be, I am sure, what yours now are; and to-morrow's sun would light me on the way to Ecbatana. Nay, father, I would not wait a day longer. Woman though I am, I am almost ready to offer myself a companion of our friend on this pious service.'

'I shall not,' said Gracchus, 'undertake to dissuade our friend from what seems now to be his settled purpose. Yet still, for our sakes, for the sake of the aged Portia, and all in Rome, I could wish—supposing Isaac should fail—that one more attempt might be made in the same way, ere so much is put at hazard. It needs no great penetration to see how highly prized by Persia must be the possession of such a trophy of her prowess as the head of the ancient house of Piso—with what jealousy his every movement would be watched, and what danger must wait upon any attempt at his deliverance. Moreover, while a mere hireling might, if detected, have one chance among a thousand of pardon and escape, even that were wanting to you. Another Piso would be either another footstool of the Persian despot, while life should last, or else he would swing upon a Persian gibbet, and so would perish the last of a noble name.'

'I cannot deny that reason is on your side,' I said, in reply to this strong case of Gracchus, 'but feeling is on mine, and the contest is never an equal one. Feeling is, perhaps, the essence of reason, of which no account need or can be given, and ought to prevail. But however this may be, I feel that I am right, and so I must act.'

'But let us now think of nothing else,' said Fausta, 'than that before another day is ended, we shall get intelligence of Isaac. Have you, Lucius, inquired, since your return, of Demetrius?'

'Milo is now absent on that very errand,' I replied, 'and here he is, giving no signs of success.'

Milo at the same moment entered the hall, and stated that Demetrius was himself absent from the city, but was every moment expected, and it was known that he had been seeking anxiously—the preceding day—for me. While Milo was yet speaking, a messenger was announced, inquiring for me, and before I could reach the extremity of the apartment, Demetrius himself entered the room in haste, brandishing in his hand a letter, which he knew well to be from Isaac.

''Tis his own hand,' said he, 'The form of his letters is not to be mistaken. Not even the hand of Demetrius can cut with more grace the Greek character. Observe, Roman, the fashion of his touch. Isaac would have guided a rare hand at the graving tool. But these Jews shun the nicer arts. They are a strange people.'

'Quickly,' said I, interrupting the voluble Greek, 'as you love the gods, deliver to me the letter! By and by we will discourse of these things'—and seizing the epistle, I ran with it to another apartment, first to devour it myself.

I cannot tell you, dear friends, with what eagerness I drank in the contents of the letter, and with what ecstasy of joy I leaped and shouted at the news it brought. In one word, my brother lives, and it is possible that before this epistle to you shall be finished, he himself will sit at my side. But to put you in possession of the whole case, I shall transcribe for you the chief parts of Isaac's careful and minute account, preserving for your amusement much of what in no way whatever relates to the affair in hand, and is useful only as it will present a sort of picture of one of this strange tribe. As soon as I had filled myself with its transporting contents, I hastened to the hall where I had left Fausta and Gracchus, to whom—Demetrius having in the mean time taken his departure—I quickly communicated its intelligence, and received their hearty congratulations, and then read it to them very much as I now transcribe it for you. You will now acknowledge my obligations to this kind-hearted Jew, and will devoutly bless the gods for my accidental encounter with him on board the Mediterranean trader. Here now is the letter itself.

ISAAC, the Son of Isaac of Rome, to the most noble L. MANLIUS Piso, at Palmyra:

That I am alive, Roman, after the perils of my journey, and the worse perils of this Pagan city, can be ascribed to nothing else than the protecting arm of the God of our nation. It is new evidence to me, that somewhat is yet to be achieved by my ministry, for the good of my country. That I am here in this remote and benighted region, that I should have adventured hither in the service of a Roman to save one Roman life, when, were the power mine, I would cut off every Roman life, from the babe at the breast to the silver head, and lay waste the kingdom of the great Mother of Iniquity with fire and sword, is to me a thing so wonderful, that I refer it all to the pleasure of that Power, who orders events according to a plan and wisdom impenetrable by us. Think not, Roman, that I have journeyed so far for the sake of thy two talents of gold—though that is considerable. And the mention of this draws my mind to a matter, overlooked in the stipulations entered into between thee and me, at my dwelling in Palmyra. Singular, that so weighty a part of that transaction should have been taken no note of! Now I must trust it wholly to thee, Piso, and feel that I may safely do so. In case of my death, the double of the recompense agreed upon was to be paid, in accordance with directions left. But what was to be done in case of thy death? Why, most thoughtful Isaac—most prudent of men—for this thou didst make no provision! And yet may not Piso die; as well as Isaac? Has a Roman more lives than a Jew? Nay, how know I but thou art now dead, and no one living to do me justice? See to this, excellent Roman. Thou wouldst not have me go unrequited for all this hazard and toil. Let thy heirs be bound, by sure and legal instruments, to make good to me all thou hast bound thyself to pay. Do this, and thy gods and my God prosper thee! Forget it not. Let it be done as soon as these words are read. Demetrius will show thee one who will draw up a writing in agreement with both the Palmyrene and Roman Law. Unheard of heedlessness! But this I thought not about till I took my pen to write.

What was I saying?—that I came not for thy gold—that is, not for that solely or chiefly. For what, and why, then? Because, as I have hinted, I felt myself driven by an invisible power to this enterprise. I wait with, patience to know what its issue is to be.

Now let me inform thee of my journey and my doings. But first, in one brief word, let me relieve thy impatience by saying, I think thy brother is to be rescued! No more of this at present, but all in order. When I parted from thee that night, I had hardly formed my plan, though my mind, quick in all its workings, did suddenly conceive one way in which it appeared possible to me to compass the desired object. Perhaps you will deem it a piece of rashness rather than of courage so quickly to undertake your affair, I should call it so too, did I not also catch dimly in the depth of the Heavens the form of the finger of God. This thou wilt not and canst not understand. It is beyond thee. Is it not so? But, Roman, I trust the day is to come when by my mouth, if not by another's, thou shalt hear enough to understand that truth is to be found no where but in Moses. Avoid Probus. I fear me he is already in Palmyra. There is more cunning in him than is good. With that deep face and serene air he deceives many. All I say is, shun him. To be a Roman unbeliever is better than to be a Christian heretic. But to my journey.

The morning after I parted from thee saw me issuing at an early hour from the Persian Gate, and with my single Ethiopian slave bearing toward the desert, I took with me but a light bale of merchandise, that I might not burden my good dromedary. Than mine, there is not a fleeter in the whole East. One nearly as good, and at a huge price, did I purchase for my slave. 'T was too suddenly bought to be cheaply bought. But I was not cozened. It proved a rare animal. I think there lives not the man in Palmyra or Damascus who could blind Isaac. I determined to travel at the greatest speed we and our beasts could bear, so we avoided as far as we could the heats of day, and rode by night. The first day being through the peopled regions of the Queen's dominions, and through a cultivated country, we travelled at our ease; and not unfrequently at such places as I saw promised well, did we stop, and while our good beasts regaled themselves upon the rich herbage or richer grain, trafficked. In this surely I erred not. For losing, as I have done by this distant and unwonted route, the trade of Ctesiphon, 't was just, was it not, that to the extent possible, without great obstruction thrown in the way of your affairs, I should repair the evil of that loss? Truth to speak, it was only because my eye foresaw some such profitings on the way, that I made myself contented with but two gold talents of Jerusalem. Two days were passed thus, and on the third we entered upon a barren region—barren as where the prophet found no food but such as birds from Heaven brought him. But why speak of this to thee? O, that thou wouldst but once only once, sit at the feet of that man of God, Simon Ben Gorah! Solomon was not more wise. His words are arrows with two heads from a golden bow. His reasons weigh as the mountains of Lebanon. They break and crush all on whom they fall. Would, Roman, they might sometime fall on thee! The third day we were on this barren region, and the next fairly upon the desert. Now did we reap the benefit of our good beasts. The heat was like that of the furnace of Nebuchadnezzar, out of which the three children, Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego came, through the power of God, unscorched. And moreover, they were soon put to an unwonted and unlooked for burden, and in such a manner as, to thy wonder, I shall relate.

It was a day the air of which was like the air of that furnace—burning—burning hot. Death was written upon the whole face of the visible earth. Where leaves had been, there were none now, or they crumbled into ashes as the hand touched them. The atmosphere, when moved by the wind, brought not, as it is used to do, a greater coolness, but a fiercer heat. It was full of flickering waves that danced up and down with a quivering motion, and dazzled and blinded the eye that looked upon them. And the sand was not like that which for the most part is met with on that desert stretching from the Mediterranean to Palmyra, and of which thou hast had some experience—heavy, and hard, and seamed with cracks—but fine, and light, and raised into clouds by every breath of wind, and driven into the skin like points of needles. When the wind, as frequently it did, blew with violence, we could only stop and bury our faces in our garments, our poor beasts crying out with pain. It was on such a day, having, because there was no place of rest, been obliged to endure all the noonday heat, that, when the sun was at the highest and we looked eagerly every way for even a dry and leafless bush that we might crouch down beneath its shade, we saw at a distance before us the tall trunk of a cedar, bleached to ivory, and twinkling like a pharos under the hot rays. We slowly approached it, Hadad, my Ethiopian, knowing it as one of the pillars of the desert.

'There it has stood and shone a thousand years,' said he; 'and but for such marks, who could cross these seas of sand, where your foot-mark is lost, as soon as made?' After a few moments' pause, he again exclaimed: 'And by the beard of holy Abraham! a living human being sits at the root—or else mayhap my eyes deceive me, and I see only the twisted roots of the tree.'

''T is too far for my eyes to discern aught but the blasted trunk. No living creature can dwell here. 'T is the region of death only.'

A blast of the desert struck us at the moment, and well nigh buried us in its rushing whirlwind of sand. We stood still, closed our eyes, and buried our faces in the folds of our garments.

'Horrible and out of nature!' I cried—'the sun blazing without a cloud as big as a locust to dim his ray, and yet these gusts, like the raging of a tempest. The winds surely rise. Providence be our guide out of this valley of fire and death!'

'There is no providence here,' said the slave, 'nor any where; else why these savage and dreary deserts, which must be crossed, and yet we die in doing it.'

'Hold thy peace, blasphemer!' I could not but rejoin, 'and take heed lest thy impious tongue draw down a whirlwind of God to the destruction of us both.'

'The curse of Arimanes'—began the irritated slave—when suddenly he paused, and cried out in another tone: 'Look! look! Isaac, and see now for thyself: I am no Jew, if there sit not a woman at the root of yonder tree,'

I looked, and now that we had drawn nearer, and the wind had subsided for an instant, I plainly beheld the form of a woman, bent over as if in the act of holding and defending an infant. I believed it a delusion of Satan.

'It is awful,' said I; 'but let us hasten; if it be a reality, our coming must be as the descent of angels.'

I pressed on my weary animal, and in a few moments we stood before what seemed indeed a human being, of flesh and bone—and what was more wonderful still, a woman. Yet she stirred not, nor gave other sign of life.

'Is the breath of life yet in you?' I cried out—not doubting, however, that whoever it was, death had already released her from her misery—and at the same time laid my hand upon her shoulder. At which she started, and lifting up her head, the very ghastliness of death stamped upon every feature, she shrieked: 'I drown! I drown! Hassan, save me!' and her head fell again upon her knees.

'Poor fool,' said I, 'thou art upon the sands of the desert, and thou dreamest: awake!—awake!—and here is water for thee—real water.'

At which she waked indeed, with a convulsive start, and while with one hand she held fast her child—for a child was indeed laid away among the folds of her garments—with the other she madly grasped the small cup I held out to her, and tearing aside the covering from the face of the infant, she forced open its mouth, and poured in some of the water we gave her, watching its effect. Soon as the little one gave signs of life, she drank the remainder at a draught, crying out, 'More! more!' Our water, of which we had as yet good store, though hot as the wind itself, quickly restored both mother and child.

'And now tell me, miserable woman, what direful chance has brought and left thee here?—but hasten—speak quickly as thou canst—and dost thou look for any one to come to thy relief?'

'Robbers of the desert,' said she, 'have either murdered or carried into slavery my husband, and destroyed and scattered the caravan of which we made a part. I am alone in the desert; and I know of no relief but such as you can give. Leave us not, if you are men, to perish in these burning sands!'

'Fear not that I will leave you,' said I: 'what I can spare, shall freely be thine. But time is precious, for we are yet but midway the desert, and the signs of the heavens portend wind and whirlwind: hasten then and mount the dromedary of my slave, while I upon mine-bear as stronger than thou—the child.'

'Isaac,' here muttered Hadad, in an undertone, 'art thou mad? Is thy reason wholly gone? It is scarcely to be hoped that we alone may cross in safety what remains of the desert, beset as we are by these sweeping gusts, and wilt thou oppress our fainting beasts with this new burden?'

'Thou accursed of God! wouldst thou leave these here to perish? I believed not before that out of hell there could be so black a soul. Bring down thy dromedary. One word of hesitancy, and thy own carcass shall bleach upon the sands.'

I knew well who I was dealing with—that I was safe from immediate violence, though not from ultimate revenge.

Hadad then drew up his beast, which kneeling received the woman, while I took in my arms the child. We then set forward at an increased pace, to reach before light, if possible, the 'place of springs,' where a small green spot, watered by fountains which never fail, blesses these inhospitable plains.

Not a cloud was to be seen in all the compass of the heavens, yet the winds raged. The blueness of the sky was gone, and the whole inflamed dome above us was rather of the color of molten brass, the sun being but its brightest and hottest spot. At a distance we saw clouds of sand whirled aloft, and driven fiercely over the boundless plain, any one of which, it seemed to us, if it should cross our path, would bury us under its moving mass. We pressed on, trembling and silent through apprehension. The blood in my veins seemed hotter than the sand, or the sun that beat upon my face. Roman, thou canst form no conception of the horrors of this day. But for my faith, I should have utterly failed. What couldst thou have done?—nay, or the Christian Probus? But I will not taunt thee. I will rather hope. The wind became more and more violent. The sand was driven before it like chaff. Sometimes the tempest immediately around us would abate, but it only served to fill us with new apprehensions, by revealing to us the tossings of this great deep, in the distance. At one of these moments, as I was taking occasion to speak a word of comfort to the half dead mother, and cherish the little one whom I bore, a sound as of the roar of ocean caught my ear—more awful than aught I had yet heard—and at the same time a shriek and a shout from Hadad, 'God of Israel, save us! The sand! the sand!'

I looked in the direction of the sound, and there in the south it looked—God, how terrible to behold!—as if the whole plain were risen up, and were about to fall upon us.

''T is vain to fly!' I cried aloud to Hadad, who was urging his animal to its utmost speed. 'Let us perish together. Besides, observe the heaviest and thickest of the cloud is in advance of us.'

The mother of the child cried out, as Hadad insanely hastened on, for her offspring, to whom I answered: 'Trust the young Ishmael to me—fear me not—cleave to the dromedary.'

Hardly were the words spoken, when the whirlwind struck us. We were dashed to the earth as we had been weeds. My senses were for a time lost in the confusion and horror of the scene. I only knew that I had been torn from my dromedary—borne along and buried by the sand—and that the young child was still in my arms. In the first moment of consciousness, I found myself struggling to free myself from the sand which was heaped around and over me. In this, after a time, I succeeded, and in restoring to animation the poor child, choked and blinded, yet—wonderful indeed!—not dead. I then looked around for Hadad and the woman, but they were no where to be seen. I shouted aloud, but there was no answer. The sand had now fallen—the wind had died away—and no sound met my ear, but the distant rumbling of the retreating storm. Not far from me, my own dromedary stood, partly buried in sand, and vainly endeavoring to extricate himself. With my aid, this was quickly effected. I was soon upon his back. But I knew not which way to turn. My dependence was upon Hadad, familiar with the route. The sun however had declined sensibly toward the west—I knew that my general direction was toward the east and north, so that with some certainty as to the true path, I sorrowfully recommenced my journey. Have I not thy pity, Roman? Has a worse case ever come to thy ear? I will not distress thee by reciting my sufferings all the way to the 'place of springs,' which by the next morning, plodding on wearily through the night, I safely reached.

There one of the first objects that greeted me, was Hadad and the mother of my Ishmael. I approached them unobserved, as they sat on the border of a spring. In the midst of other travellers, some of whom I saw were comforting the wailing Hagar—and, without a word, dropped the young child into the lap of its mother. Who shall describe the transports of her joy? 'T was worth, Piso, the journey and all its hazards.

How refreshing it was to lie here on the cool soil, beneath the shade of the grateful palm, enjoying every moment of existence, and repairing the injuries the journey had inflicted upon ourselves and our beasts! Two days we passed in this manner. While here, Hadad related what befel him after our separation. Owing to his urging on his animal in that mad way, at the time I called out to him, instead of stopping or retreating, he was farther within the heart of the cloud than I, and was more rudely handled.

'Soon as the blast fell upon us,' said he, 'that instant was my reason gone. I knew nothing for I cannot tell how long. But when I came to myself, and found that I was not in the place of the wicked—whereat I rejoiced and was amazed—I discovered, on looking round, that my good dromedary, whom I could ill spare, was dead and buried, and your Hagar, whom I could have so well spared, alive and weeping for her lost boy. I made her, with difficulty, comprehend that time was precious, and that strength would be impaired by weeping and wailing. Knowing at once in what direction to travel—after searching in vain for thee—we set out upon a journey, which, on foot, beneath a burning sun, and without water, there was small hope of accomplishing. I looked with certainty to die in the desert. But Oromasdes was my protector. See, Isaac, the advantage of a little of many faiths. We had not travelled far among the hillocks, or hills rather, of sand which we found piled up in our way, and completely altering the face of the plain, before, to our amazement and our joy, we discovered a camel, without rider or burden, coming toward us. I secured him without difficulty. At a little distance, we soon saw another; and by and by we found that we were passing over the graves of a caravan, the whole or chief part of which had been overwhelmed by the storm. Here was a body partly out of the sand, there the head or leg of a dromedary or camel. Ruin and death seemed to have finished their work. But it was not quite so. For presently on reaching the summit of a wave of sand, we discerned a remnant mounted upon the beasts that had been saved, making in the same direction, and probably to the same point, as ourselves. We joined them, and partaking of their water, were recruited, and so reached this place alive. It is now from here,' he added, 'a safe and easy road to Ecbatana.'

So we found it. But confess now, noble Piso, if in thy judgment it would have been exorbitant if I had required of thee three talents of Jerusalem instead of two? For what wouldst thou cross that molten sea, and be buried under its fiery waves! It is none other than a miracle that I am here alive in Ecbatana. And for thee I fear that miracle would not have been wrought. Hadst thou been in my place, the sands of the desert were now thy dwelling-place. Yet have I again to tempt those horrors. Being here, I must return. The dromedary of my slave Hadad was worth a hundred aurelians. A better or a fleeter never yet was in the stables of Zenobia. And dost thou know, Roman, how curious the Queen is in horses and dromedaries? There cannot a rare one of either kind enter the walls of Palmyra, but he is straightway bought up for the service of Zenobia. The swiftest in the East are hers. 'T was my purpose, returning, to have drawn upon Hadad's beast the notice of the Queen. Doubtless I should have sold it to her, and two hundred aurelians is the very least I should have asked or taken for her. To no other than Zenobia would I have parted with her for less than three hundred. But alas! her bones are on the desert. But why, you ask, should I have so favored Zenobia? It is no wonder you ask. And in answer, I tell thee perhaps a secret. Zenobia is a Jewess! Receive it or not, as thou wilt—she is a Jewess—and her heart is tender toward our tribe. I do not say, mark me, that she is one by descent, nor that she is so much as even a proselyte of the Gate, but that she believes in some sort Moses and the prophets and reads our sacred books. These things I know well from those who have been near her. But who ever heard that she has been seen to read the books of the Christians! Probus will not dare to assert it. 'T is not more public that Longinus himself is inclined to our faith—by my head, I doubt not that he is more than inclined—than 'tis that Zenobia is. If our Messiah should first of all gird on the sword of Palmyra, what Jew, whose sight is better than a mole's, would be surprised? My father—may his sleep be sweet!—whose beard came lower than his girdle, and whose wisdom was famous throughout the East, built much upon what he knew of the Queen, and her great minister, and used to say, 'That another Barchochab would arise in Palmyra, whom it would require more than, another Hadrian to hinder in his way to empire; and that if horses again swam in blood, as once at Bither, 'twould be in Roman blood.' Who am I, to deny truth and likelihood to the words of one in whom dwelt the wisdom of Solomon and the meekness of Moses, the faith of Abraham, the valor of Gideon, and the patience of Job? I rather maintain their truth. And in the features of the present time, I read change and revolution—war, and uproar, and ruin—the falling of kingdoms that have outlasted centuries, and the uprising of others that shall last for other centuries. I see the Queen of the East at battle with the Emperor of Rome, and through her victories deliverance wrought out for Israel, and the throne of Judah once more erected within the walls of Jerusalem! Now dost thou, Piso, understand, I suppose, not one word of all this. How shouldst thou? But I trust thou wilt. Surely now you will say, 'What is all this to the purpose?' Not much to any present purpose, I confess freely; and I should not marvel greatly if thou wert to throw this letter down and trample it in the dust—as Rome has done by Judea—but that thou lookest to hear of thy brother. Well, now I will tell thee of him.

When we drew near to the capital of the Great King, wishing to enrage Hadad, I asked, 'What mud-walled village is it that we see yonder over the plain?' Thou shouldst have seen the scowl of his eye—answer he gave none. I spit upon such a city—I cast out my shoe upon it! I who have dwelt at Rome, Carthage, Antioch, and Palmyra, may be allowed to despise a place like this. There are but two things that impress the beholder—the Palace of Sapor, and the Temple of Mithras, near it. These truly would be noted even in Palmyra. Not that in the building any rule or order of art is observed, but that the congregation of strange and fantastic trickery—some whereof, it cannot be gainsaid, is of rare beauty—is so vast that one is pleased with it as he is with the remembrance of the wonderful combinations of a dream.

Soon as we entered the gates of the city, I turned to the woman whom we brought from the desert, and who rode the camel with Hadad, and said to her: 'First of all, Hagar, we take thee to those who are of thy kindred, or to thy friends, and well may they bless the good Providence of God that they see thee. 'T was a foul deed of thy husband, after the manner of the patriarch to leave thee and thy little one to perish on the burning sands of the desert.'

'Good Jew,' she replied, 'my name is not Hagar, nor did my husband leave me willingly. I tell thee we were set upon by robbers, and Hassan, my poor husband, was either killed, or carried away no one can tell whither.'

'No matter—names are of little moment. To me, thou art Hagar, and thy little one here is Ishmael—and if thou wilt, Ishmael shall be mine. I will take him and rear him as mine—he shall be rich—and thou shalt be rich, and dwell where thou wilt.' The child, Roman, had wound itself all around my heart. He was of three years or more, and, feature for feature, answered to the youngest of my own, long since lost, and now in Abraham's bosom. But it was not to be as I wished. All the mother rushed into the face of the woman.

'Good Jew,' she cried, 'the God of Heaven will reward thee for thy mercy shown to us; but hadst thou saved my life a thousand times, I could not pay thee with my child. I am poor, and have nought to give thee but my thanks.'

'I will see thee again,' said I to the widow of Hassan, as we set her down in the street where her kinsfolk dwelt, 'if thou wilt allow me. Receive thy child.'

The child smiled as I kissed him and gave him again to his mother. It was the smile of Joseph. I could at that moment almost myself have become a robber of the desert, and taken what the others had left.

We here parted, and Hadad and myself bent our way to the house of Levi, a merchant well known to Hadad, and who, he assured me, would gladly receive us. His shop, as we entered it, seemed well stored with the richest goods, but the building of which it made a part promised not very ample lodgings. But the hospitable welcome of the aged Levi promised better.

'Welcome every true son of Israel,' said he, as we drew near where in a remoter part of the large apartment he sat busy at his books of account. 'Make yourselves at home beneath the roof of Levi. Follow me and find more private quarters.'

So, leaving Hadad and the camels to the care of those whom our host summoned, I followed him as desired to another part of the dwelling. It now seemed spacious enough. After winding about among narrow and dark passages, we at length came to large and well-furnished rooms, apparently quite remote from the shop, and far removed from the street. Here we seated ourselves, and I unfolded to Levi the nature of my business. He listened, wondered, smiled, shook his head, and made a thousand contrary movements and signs. When I had done, he comforted and instructed me after this manner.

'Something like a fool's errand. Yet the pay is good—that cannot be doubted. It had been better, I think, for thee to have followed thy trade in Palmyra or Ctesiphon. Yet perhaps this may turn out well. The promised sum is large. Who can tell? 'Tis worth a risk. Yet if, in taking the risk, one loses his head, it were a mad enterprise. Verily, I can say nothing but that time will disclose it, and the event prove it. A thing is not seen all at once, and the eye cannot at once reach every part of a ball. Wait with patience, and God shall show it.'

I saw that nothing was to be got from this prophet. Yet perhaps he knew facts. So I asked him of Hormisdas and Sapor, and if he knew aught of the Roman Piso, held a strict prisoner in Ecbatana.

'A prisoner, say you?' he replied, beginning at the end of my question; 'how can a Persian Satrap be called a prisoner? He dwells in the palace of Hormisdas, and when seen abroad, rides upon a horse whose harness is jewelled like the prince's, and his dress moreover is of the richest stuffs, and altogether Persian. 'Tis forgotten by most that he is any other than a native Persian.'

'Is he ever seen to ride alone?' I asked.

'Why the question? I know not. Who should know who rides alone and who in company? When I have seen him, it has always been in the train of others.'

'I thought as much. Doubtless he goes abroad well guarded. His companions, Levi, I doubt are little better than jailers?'

Levi opened his eyes, but it was to no purpose; they can see no other thing clearly, save a Persian coin.

I found, upon further inquiry, that it was even as I had supposed and had heard. Calpurnius lives in the palace of Hormisdas, and is his chosen companion and friend, but is allowed by Sapor no liberty of movement, and wherever he goes is attended by persons appointed to guard him. Nor have the many years that he has been here caused this vigilance in any degree to relax. All outward honor is shown him, except by the king, who, had he not, in the time of Valerian, passed his word to the prince his son, and fully surrendered Piso into his hands, would, it is believed, even now use him as he did the unhappy emperor. But he is safe in the keeping of the prince. And the guard about him, it is my present suspicion, is as much to defend him against any sudden freak of the king or his satellites, as it is to prevent his escape. The least that could happen to any Roman falling into Sapor's power would be to be flayed alive. My safety will lie in my being known only as a Jew, not as a dweller in Rome.

And now, Roman, thou desirest to know in what manner I mean to accomplish the deliverance of thy brother. It is thus. Commend the cunning of it. My Ethiopian slave is then—I must tell thee to thine amazement—no Ethiopian and no slave! He is one of my own tribe whom I have many times employed in difficult affairs, and having often conferred upon him the most essential favors, have bound him to my will. Him I am to leave here, being first cleansed of the deep dye with which by my art—and what art is it I am not familiar with?—I have stained his skin to the darkest hue of the African, and then in his place, and retained to the same hue, am I to take thy brother, and so with security and in broad day walk through the gates of Ecbatana. Is it to be thought of that I should fail? All will rest with Calpurnius. If, in the first place, he shall be willing to return, and then, in the next place, shall consent to submit to this momentary and only apparent degradation, the issue is as certain to be happy, as the means shall be tried. My head never set with a sense of more security upon my shoulders, than now, while planning and putting into execution this Carthaginian plot.

It was first of all necessary that I should become acquainted with the city, with the situation and structure of the palace of Hormisdas, and make myself known in the streets as one of those way-side merchants whom all abuse, yet whom all are glad to trade with. So, with my slave bending under the burden of those articles of use or luxury which I thought would be most attractive, we set forth into the midst of the busy streets, seeking a market for our commodities. Several days were passed in this manner, returning each night to lodge in the house of the rich and foolish, but hospitable Levi.

While thus employed, I frequently saw Calpurnius in company with the prince or other nobles, either riding in state through the streets of the city, or else setting out upon excursions of pleasure beyond the walls. But my chief object was to observe well the palace of the prince, and learn the particular part of it inhabited by the Roman, and how and where it was his custom to pass his time. This it was not difficult to do. The palace of the prince I found to occupy a square of the city not far from that of the king his father. It is of vast extent, but of a desolate aspect, from the fewness of its inhabitants and the jealousy with which the prince and all his movements are watched by the wicked and now superannuated Sapor. Every day I diligently paced the streets upon which it stands. I at first went without Hadad, that I might observe with the more leisure. I at length discovered the apartments used by Calpurnius, and learned that it was his custom, when not absent from the palace upon some enterprise of pleasure, to refresh himself by breathing the air, and pacing to and fro upon a gallery of light Persian architecture, which borders immediately upon one of the four streets that bounds the palace. This gallery was not so high above the street but what the voice could easily reach those who were walking there, and that without greatly increasing its natural tone. From pillar to pillar there ran along a low lattice-work of fanciful device, upon which it was the usage of Calpurnius, and those who were with him, often to lean and idly watch the movements of the passengers below. Here, I found, must be my place of audience. Here I must draw his attention, and make myself known to him. For an opportunity to do this, I saw at once I might be obliged to wait long, for scarce ever was Calpurnius there, but Hormisdas, or some one of the nobles, was with him; or if he was alone, yet the street was so thronged that it must be difficult to obtain a hearing.

Having learned these things, I then came forth, with Hadad bearing my merchandise, I myself going before him as owner and crier. Many times did I pass and repass the gallery of Calpurnius to no purpose—he either not being there, or attended closely by others, or wrapped in thought so that my cries could not arouse him. It was clear to me that I must make some bold attempt. He was one day standing at the lattice-work already named, alone, and looking at the passers by. Seeing him there as I entered the street, I made directly toward the spot, crying in the loudest tone my goods; and notwithstanding the numbers who were on their way along the street, I addressed myself boldly to him, purposely mistaking him for Hormisdas. 'Prince,' said I, 'buy a little, if it please you, of a poor Jew, who has lately traversed the desert to serve you. I have in these panniers wonders from all parts of the world. There is not a city famous for its art in any rare and curious work, that is not represented here. Kings, queens, and princes, have not disdained to purchase of me. The great Sapor at Ctesiphon has of me procured some of his largest diamonds. I have sold to Claudius, and Zenobia, and half the nobility of Palmyra. Dost thou see, prince, the glory of this assortment of diamonds? Look! How would they become thy finger, thy hunting cap, or thy sandals?'

Thy brother listened to me with unmoved countenance and folded arms, receiving passively whatever I was pleased to say. When I paused, he said, in a tone of sadness, though of affected pleasantry:

'Jew, I am the worst subject for thee in all Ecbatana. I am a man without wants. I do nothing but live, and I have nothing to do to live.'

'Now,' I replied, 'is it time for me to die, having seen the chief wonder of the world—a man without wants.'

'There is a greater yet,' said he smiling; 'thou must live on.'

'And what is that?'

'A woman.'

'Thou hast me. But I can easily compound with life. I have many wants, yet I love it. I was but a day or two since buried alive under the burning sands of the desert, and lost there a dromedary worth—if a farthing—four hundred aurelians, for which thou mayest have him. Yet I love to live, and take the chances of the world as they turn up. Here now have I all the way consoled myself with the thought of what I might sell to the great Prince Hormisdas, and thou seest my reward. Still I cry my goods with the same zeal. But surely thou wantest something? I have jewels from Rome—of the latest fashion.'

'I want nothing from Rome.'

Seeing no one was near, and lowering my voice, I said, 'Thou wantest nothing from Rome? What wouldst thou give, Roman, for news from Rome?'

'News from Rome? Not an obolus. How knowest thou me to be a Roman? But now, I was the prince Hormisdas.'

'I have seen thee many times, and know thee well, as the Roman Piso. I have news for thee.'

'The prince approaches!' said Piso, in a hurried manner. 'Begone, but come again at the hour of dusk, and I shall be alone, and will have thee admitted within the gates of the palace.'

The fates ordering it so, I was obliged to depart, and trust again to the future for such chances of renewing my conversation with him as it might have to offer. Here let me tell thee, Lucius Piso, that not having seen thy brother, thou hast never seen a man. He is one with every mark of the noblest manhood. His air is that of a born prince of the highest bearing, yet free and unrestrained. The beauty of his countenance is beyond that of any other I have ever seen, yet is it a manly beauty. A line of dark short hair covers his upper lip. His eyes are large and dark, yet soft in their general expression. He seems of a melancholy and thoughtful temper, and sometimes in his words there is an inexpressible bitterness. Yet it has appeared to me, that his nature is gentle, and that the other character is one accidental or assumed. If I should compare him with any one for beauty, it would be, Roman, not with thee—though I see him and thee to be of the same stock—but with the princess Julia. Were her beauty only made masculine, she would then be Calpurnius; or were his made feminine, he would then be Julia. But this fancy might not strike others. His features and air are not so much Roman as oriental—thine are purely Roman. It may be that costume alone imparts this Eastern aspect to the countenance and the form—for his dress is wholly that of a Persian.

As I passed into the dwelling of my host, entering it as at first by the way of the shop, its owner was holding a conversation of business with some of his customers. How does money seem native to the palm of some men! They have but to open it, and straight it is lined with gold. If they blunder, it is into more wealth. With wit scarce sufficient to make it clear to another that they are properly men, do they manage to make themselves the very chief of all, by reason of the riches they heap up—which ever have claimed and received, and ever will, the homage of the world. Levi is of this sort. The meanness of his understanding words cannot express—or no words but his own. He was talking after this manner, as I entered, to one who seemed to hold him in utmost reverence: